


Disruption

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:36:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should have to. You shouldn’t ever have to deal with creeps like that. At all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disruption

**Author's Note:**

> happy (belated) bday tatsuya~
> 
> prompt courtesy of twitter user makun0uchi

They’re technically not supposed to be here—the bouncer (who might not really be a bouncer because this is just a game room) scans IDs at the door and they don’t even have fakes but Tatsuya can find any sealed crack and talk his way through it and once he starts exploiting it, well. At this point both of them just get waved in and since they’re not getting wasted or throwing too much money around no one really pays them too much mind.

Well, no one really pays Shuuzou too much mind. He stands to the side, occasionally loses a few dollars in a game of darts, and when Tatsuya’s playing pool he watches. He can’t not—the graceful fluidity of Tatsuya’s motions stand out even more when he’s staring down the arrangement of balls on the table; the snap of his wrists as he moves the pole is even quicker than when they’re releasing a basketball into the air, and there’s something (okay, a lot of things) about that position that accentuates just how gorgeous Tatsuya is, the quiet intensity of his eyes and the outline of his figure, the way his shirt hangs around his back and waist and hips and the strength and firmness in his arms.

And he’s pretty damn good at it, too (although Shuuzou still doesn’t grasp most of the rules of the game and every time he tries to watch he ends up concentrating on the way Tatsuya looks and paying no attention to the sound of the balls clacking against each other or the sides of the tables, or which one drifts where and which side benefits.

Tatsuya’s game ends; Shuuzou drifts out of his reverie. They’re exchanging money and chatting about the match and someone else is putting the balls back in their places for the next round. Shuuzou takes it as his cue to go get Tatsuya another drink and heads for the bar. It takes a while to catch the bartender’s attention, but he eventually does and winds his way back through the crowd to Tatsuya.

His hands are in his pockets and he’s slouching casually, but his feet are planted firmly, oddly so. He’s talking to a man who probably weights twice what he does, someone who’s definitely not one of the regulars here. His shaved head only exaggerates the thickness of his neck and the way his muscles bulge out from under his tank top, and he’s only a few inches taller but leering down at Tatsuya anyway. Shuuzou frowns, edging closer.

“You ought to be keeping that pretty little ass of yours out of trouble,” the man says, voice reedy but sharper than a needle piercing leather.

“I think I’m managing pretty well, thanks,” Tatsuya says, not ceding an inch and looking up into that face without flinching.

“Maybe you’ve been lucky so far,” says the man. “But I might be able to show you a few things. Teach you.”

His hand darts out and Shuuzou knows exactly where it’s going and so does Tatsuya and as the man leers closer and his palm opens, it doesn’t get the chance to go anywhere near any part of Tatsuya.

“Excuse me,” says Shuuzou.

His skin is crawling; the man’s beefy, sweaty hand feels so unclean against his arm. The man stares at him, breathing heavily for a second (and he’s clearly drunk; the look in his eyes and the stale sourness of his breath would give it away if the clumsy, foggy slowness of his moves toward Tatsuya hadn’t already).

“He’s with me,” Shuuzou clarifies, leering back—yeah, this guy’s got a size advantage but Shuuzou’s sober and angry and experienced and if it comes to that, well.

This is far from the first time some creep’s decided hitting on Tatsuya is a good idea, and even though most of the time Tatsuya’s already worming his way out of the situation just as Shuuzou’s headed over it doesn’t mean it’s right that he has to deal with them. Just because he’s young and pretty and charming shouldn’t be an invitation to these bastards to think they can insinuate things and especially touch him like that.

“The fuck you want, you little punk? You think you can fight me?”

“Yeah,” says Shuuzou. “Actually, I know I can.”

“So if I want him, I just have to knock you out. Fine by me.”

And then he tightens his grip around Shuuzou’s arm, lunging again—Shuuzou swings himself out of the way and punches. He’s still holding the beer bottle; he hears a splash and a hiss as it empties all over the man and, okay, that probably wasn’t the smartest idea but he doesn’t really give a shit because that man’s talking about Tatsuya like he’s some pretty prize or something and on top of everything else Shuuzou shouldn’t be surprised at all and he isn’t, but he’s angry anyway. The man’s grappling for control the beer bottle and Shuuzou loosens his grip; the man pulls back too hard and falls, slipping on the wet floor and pulling Shuuzou down with him. Shuuzou takes advantage of the man’s confusion to free his arm and try to roll away, but as he’s detaching himself he’s yanked up by the back of his shirt. The bouncer (or whatever he is) is glaring at him in utter contempt, and the manager has the creep in a similar hold.

“This kind of disruption is not tolerated here,” says the manager, with all the iciness of an experienced schoolteacher who’s stepped out for a moment and come back to find the class having descended into absolute madness. And the rest of the room is looking at them like wide-eyed children and, damn. The man is trying to struggle out of the manager’s grip, but the manager’s strong as hell and quite used to doing this. He’s still swearing loudly as they get pushed outside—Tatsuya, too. And now they’ve been somewhat subdued, Shuuzou doesn’t want to go back to fighting the man, doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. But absent anyone to break it up again, he might have to—absent anyone else, the fucker might go for Tatsuya again.

“I bet they’re fucking underage. I bet the cops wouldn’t like that if I called them on you!” the man yells.

“Yeah, and I bet they’d love to hear about you assaulting a minor, too. Scram.”

The man spits at Shuuzou, hitting him on the cheek, before turning and heading away, thankfully not in the same direction as Shuuzou’s house. The manager glares at both of them (and the message is clear that they’re not to come back or even try) before slamming the door shut. Shuuzou wipes his face off with the end of his sleeve; his arm is still throbbing from the man’s grip. He slips his hand in Tatsuya’s, and they begin to walk.

“I could have dealt with it,” Tatsuya says—but his tone is not particularly angry.

“I know,” says Shuuzou.

He’s seen Tatsuya fight before, many times—too many times, because he’s taking a stand or because he’s angry with himself or because he’s held out bait he knows some poor sucker’s going to take, or for some other reasons that Shuuzou still finds as intangible as a cloud. And he’s seen how terrifying Tatsuya can be (and wouldn’t be perfectly confident betting on himself to win against him), but that’s the point.

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should have to. You shouldn’t ever have to deal with creeps like that. At all.”

Tatsuya shrugs, looking almost completely placid, as a lake on a still morning—but there’s enough of a ripple for Shuuzou to continue.

“And I know you have before but…I just can’t watch it happen to you.”

He squeezes Tatsuya’s hand in what he hopes is a reassuring way (or at least a way that Tatsuya doesn’t take as too pushy or overbearing)—and then Tatsuya stops.

The light is theirs; this late at night cars coming down these side streets are rare, anyway. Shuuzou looks down, but Tatsuya’s eye is hidden on the other side of his face and then all of a sudden Tatsuya’s enveloped him in a hug. It’s not with the tentative reciprocation of when Shuuzou hugs him first, or a hug that’s just a gateway to certain other physical activities. Tatsuya’s arms are tight around his waist and he presses his face against Shuuzou’s shoulder close and tight enough for Shuuzou to feel the outline of every feature on Tatsuya’s face through his hoodie. He hugs Tatsuya back; for a second Tatsuya’s grip loosens but then it tightens again, and Shuuzou places his lips on the most open spot of Tatsuya’s cheek. They hear the echoes of a car radio, thumping bass reverberating against the sidewalk, a few blocks away—it fades out just as quickly as it fades in. The wind through the trees sends brittle punctuation through the air and eventually Tatsuya lets go.

“Shuu,” he says. “Thank you.”

And Shuuzou wants to respond, but he’s not sure how—a “you’re welcome” is completely wrong in this situation, and he can’t just say it’s his job as a boyfriend or even as a person because that’s not the point. So he settles for squeezing Tatsuya’s hand again, and they walk the rest of the way to Shuuzou’s house in silence.

Even though it’s not the first night that Tatsuya’s stayed, it’s the first night Shuuzou’s sure he’s going to, the first night he’s certain he’ll wake up with Tatsuya next to him the next morning. And when he opens his eyes, Tatsuya’s there in his arms, protected for the moment. He lets Shuuzou pull him closer, half-sighing in his sleep, the sound like the beach on a day with rough surf from the far side of the dunes.


End file.
